At the Bar
by Leximaven
Summary: The queer men of the Wizarding World visit a filthy, dilapidated Muggle bar when looking for skin and warmth to help them forget. One night Harry sees an unexpected face, and a long, quiet dance is begun.


_AN: _Title, and plot bunny, comes from Pet Shop Boys' _To Speak is a Sin.  
_For anyone waiting for _The Walls of Grimmauld Place_, my baby, to update - I'm sorry it's taking so long but I have no idea when the next chapter will be up.

* * *

**At the Bar**

The room is hazy with smoke, the weeknight's noise a constant murmur that rises and fades from awareness like a wave. This is not the kind of social scene one frequents on the weekend.

The place seems pretty shabby actually, and you wonder why anyone would frequent it at all. Old men, regulars, line the walls, muttering unintelligible slurs around the pipes hanging from their lips; you always wear your worst shoes, for there is no saying when the floor was last cleaned, or what has found itself down there over the years; there are mystery stains on the bar itself, and the bowls of peanuts… Well, the few who've tried them are adamant they must be older than God – or Merlin, as the case may be.

The barman isn't polite, and the locals aren't welcoming – yet you found yourself coming back. It was just one of those places; or so everyone said. You couldn't see the appeal, but… Well, it's not like you had anything better to do.

So you visit irregularly, careful not to build up a reputation, or be given the honour of having a "regular" – not that the moody bastard behind the bar would grant one to the likes of you anyway.

It's on a Thursday night that you first see him – Draco Malfoy.

It's been five weeks since you started coming, and you know by now that Thursdays are always the busiest. No one really cares about being hung-over on a Friday, but at the same time, spending the night at a decent bar, or out clubbing, is pushing the boundaries just a little; no one has the energy on a Thursday.

You're sitting sideways to the door when he enters, and he doesn't even look up. There is no curious glance at the room's inhabitants, just a filthy look at the state of the floor; he's been here before.

You pull up your collar and hunch your shoulders, keeping your face turned away as he crosses the dimly lit room behind you. He takes a seat on the adjacent side of the bar, brushing off the stool before sitting down, scrutinizing his cuticles while he waits for the barman to notice his presence. Later you will realise that this is a routine, meant to send a message: yes, I'm a beautiful man out drinking alone; no, you may not have my attention.

He has _your_ attention, though, from the moment he enters the room. You drink in his appearance: snug, black jeans; thin blue shirt that clings in a way robes never do, leaving little to the imagination; gossamer-fine hair newly cropped short, making the most of his aristocratic features. Malfoy certainly looks the part, but what could he possibly be doing in so Muggle an establishment?

You're busy discreetly observing him over your drink, and so when somebody sits down beside you, you startle – something that hasn't happened in years. It seems you were too distracted to hear the door opening.

Dean meets your eye and you give each other a nod of recognition before he turns away to order his drink. You go back to observing Malfoy, noting with some surprise that he's simply drinking beer, like you. You realise you were expecting the finest whiskey on offer, or maybe a scotch, and feel a little ridiculous; you return your gaze to the bottom of your glass.

When movement catches your eye, you glance up: Dean and Malfoy are exchanging their own nods. The blond doesn't even look at you, and you wonder if he was aware of your presence all along. You shake off the odd flush of embarrassment, and turn to your companion.

"You're on nodding terms with Malfoy?"

Dean shrugs. "I've seen him here before. That's what this place is for, right? To leave all that behind? Anyway, he mostly keeps to himself."

A snarky comment comes to mind, something about not wearing jeans that tight unless you're looking for company, but you force it down. After all, in your own discreetly torn pair you're hardly in a position to judge.

It's a little strange, you think, to be sharing a drink and casual touches with your ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend, but it's a good kind of strange; you've needed this.

You wrap the evening up a few beers in, dropping some Muggle cash on the counter as you struggle into your coat. You and Dean don't plan on going far, maybe just around the corner to the dark unpleasant alley, but it's cold outside. As he pays for his own drinks Dean bids Malfoy farewell with another nod, this time adding a smile. The answering curve of lips has you instantly harder than the entire evening's foreplay, and you pull in a quick, surprised breath. Dean glances over, brow furrowed, but he's not going to question it; you're already his for the night.

You turn from the bar, somewhat disgruntled that he still hasn't looked at you, but then the hair on the back of your neck prickles; you feel his gaze all the way to the door.

* * *

You see him there again, often. You tell yourself it's just chance that you've increased the frequency of your visits, that it was the release Dean gave you that has you coming back for more, but you know denial when you're mired in it.

You never speak to one another: commandment number one. Even when it's just the two of you, sitting silent and alone for hours, you never utter a word. It simply seems wrong somehow, in that place. You are escaping the war, escaping the rigours of Ministry work, escaping your world – but your shared past is something that can't be run from.

That's why they all go there – to drink, to meet, to wallow, to forget… The bar may not be classy, or even pleasant, but that's in its favour: no element of one's past would willingly crash thisparty. Nobody comes here except to escape.

And so you meet, for years, in silence – never a word spoken. In the real world, nothing changes. There is no confirmation of these unplanned rendezvous: no nods in the street, no friendly greetings exchanged. If your eyes linger on his passing figure for longer than they once did, it's simply attributed to the natural progression of time.

You never speak, but you do watch. You stare, and sometimes you smile.

The expression is even more potent with its full force directed at you, and every night he smiles at you, you fall asleep more satisfied than ever before. His stare makes butterflies churn in your gut, and soon merely laying eyes on him causes something warm to spread through your chest. The bar, the flings, they are meant to be an escape – but with Draco on your mind you can never forget the past, yet somehow he brings you peace.

* * *

Everything comes to a head after eight long years.

For once, the bar is all but full; it seems like every man in this strange interconnected circle is out looking for company. Several of them approach you throughout the evening, men you've been with in the past, some who you've even managed some kind of relationship with. But you turn them all down. You're not here for a quick fling; you're not looking to forget, or escape. You're looking for _him._

It's been long enough, you've decided. Long enough for the death and the darkness to subside, long enough that you're tired of running and escaping and forgetting and denying… You're ready to live, ready to find peace, ready to _make _peace with the past.

You pick up your beer and you cross the room. You offer a smile. "This seat taken?"

He smiles, shakes his head. You sit down.

"So, Potter," he drawls. "Come here often?"


End file.
